I Write Sins Not Tragedies
by Playgirl Eugene
Summary: Loving someone the way he loved, so much… just so much he was losing his mind… never again would he love like that.


**I WRITE SINS NOT TRAGEDIES  
**

_Written by Playgirl Eugene_

**Author's Note : **Hi, all. This is the new, revised version of the story _**I Write Sins not Tragedies**_. I realized that my older stories contain plenty of grammar mistakes, event mistakes, and many other errors. So, I decided to repost everything all over again. I hope with this, my old readers will continue to support me and I will attract some new readers as I tried to improve my writing style and grammar.

**Standard Disclaimer :** The Prince of Tennis and all of the characters, including the original plot and situations, is created and owned by Konomi Takeshi-sensei. I own nothing of it and I do not earn profit of any kind from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This disclaimer stands firm for the whole of the story. Furthermore, if I use any material that needs to be disclaimed, there will be individual credit where due.

**Summary :** Loving someone the way he loved, so much… just so much he was losing his mind… never again would he love like that.

**Rating :** M/NC – 18/R

**Warning(s) :** Slash/yaoi/male x male, character's death, cussing, graphic sexual situations/acts, dub-consensual. If any of the aforementioned warnings offends you, I suggest you turn back now. I will not appreciate anyone flaming me just because they didn't read this.

**Setting and Timeline :** Following most of the canon storyline with modifications and progressed fourteen years from the end of season one. Characters are, therefore, to be adjusted eight years older with physical and mentality maturity and changes.

**Character Setting :** Fuji/Ryoma, Tezuka/Atobe, post OC/Ryoma

**Chapter Details :** None in particular.

- Prologue -

"… _I love you so much, you know that?__"_

At ten minutes before eleven in the morning of December the twenty-fourth, the sky exploded into a carnival of white confetti, as if celebrating the warm, expectant Christmas spirit in the pulsing, bustling streets Tokyo. The snow turned the brilliantly lit and cheerfully decorated streets slightly grey with its slush as people bustled and squirmed in their haste, crowding here and there for their last minute shopping.

In the serene setting, as the white melted away in the milieu, was the arched structure of the old church. In tow of its peaceful significance was where lost of loved ones staged its grief.

"We all gather here today to witness our precious family, friend, and lover departing yet to another world, more peaceful and beautiful…"

It made a touching, tragically solemn picture as they bowed their heads low, mourning for the lost and would never return as the surrounded the dark wooded, modest coffin.

"No! No! This can't be happening! This is not happening!" Yoshiko cried in denial, clawing and clutching desperately on her husband, who looked as if disconnected from reality from his dazed, blank gaze. "H-he… he wouldn't leave us! Keisuke, tell me—tell me he didn't leave me! My baby can't leave me!"

Yumiko looked down, her eyes grieving behind her dark tinted glasses but her poise was held with admirable strength. Yuuta was on her side, choking down his sobs and stubbornly trying to imitate his sister but failing as tears welled in his eyes and his lips trembled from a strange sensation of disappointment, loss, and regret.

Tezuka stood unmoving, but his clenched fists trembled as if conveying emotions that he otherwise was incapable of. By his side was Atobe; eyes set in denial and disbelieve. He clenched his lover's arm tightly. Tezuka allowed him; or perhaps he didn't even notice the unfamiliar pressure on his numbed arms. Oishi, with tear-stricken face, gathered a shaken, sob-wrecked Kikumaru in his trembling arms, trying to lend a semblance of strength that he didn't really have.

Kaidou had taken his place behind them, silently mourning and struggling not to scream something, anything. Kawamura, pale and exhausted looking, not the least self-conscious as he cried into his wife's sympathetic shoulder. Momoshirou, with glassy eyes, stared at the scene with despondent wistfulness – this was a scene he hadn't expected to see in his lifetime.

Fuji had always seen so lively, so ageless, as if the man himself couldn't be conquered by age or ruled by the shadow of death. When they all raced toward something, Fuji's image lingered as if he was still living in the time when they were all children and ignorant, reminding them of an unforgettable chapter in their lives. He was the last they expected to see leaving this live he seemed to love so much, the love of his life that he seemed even more.

Momoshirou even had this stupid notion that Fuji might not look a day over sixteen when the rest of them were battered by the bitter blows of age. Momoshirou had never talked much to Fuji before. He was admittedly and respectfully wary of the man. Now, he regretted for not having the chance to talk more to him, to know him more.

Fuji would no longer speak, no longer would he smile in that infuriating way, no longer would his eyes gleamed mischievously, never again would he speak in that gentle, otherworldly voice.

Momoshirou glanced around, noticing Yukimura and Sanada were there. Yukimura was openly and quietly crying. Sanada was not, but his eyes conveyed more disappointment and lost than Momoshirou had ever seen the stoic man did. Surprisingly, Kirihara was there too, looking more stricken than anyone else. Marui was, for once, without his bubblegum. Yagyuu stood beside Yanagi, both looking even more solemn than usual. Kuwabara was evidently restless beside a strangely passive Niou.

Behind Niou were Oshitari and Mukahi. Akutagawa was not even asleep and appeared so sombre that Momoshirou almost didn't recognize him because that expression looked completely incompatible with his childish features. Shishidou, with puffy red eyes, was patting comfortingly on Ootori's on the back as the taller man sobbed into his own arm.

Aoi was there too, with Saeki, who looked as if he would faint at any moment. Momoshirou supposed since Saeki was Fuji's childhood friend and all, Saeki held himself quite impressively. Holding Saeki with Aoi was Shiraishi, who was without his bandage as it to honour this day by.

So many old faces, familiar and unfamiliar, and even new faces that Momoshirou didn't know created a wave of people with a singular emotion.

And yet.

Yet.

"… Echizen." Momoshirou whispered as he looked across of him and caught sight of his old friend, as if afraid that he'd upset a delicate balance in the universe for a word spoken too loud.

At twenty-six, Echizen Ryoma was the picture of subtle sensuality and exotics of the androgynous. He stood beside Fuji Keisuke – an older vision of his past-self; with longer hair that brushed against his shoulders, his skin even paler, and his eyes even colder, as if the last remnants of his sanity had snapped and evaporated in a daze of refined madness. He had always been lean and slender, but lately he had been losing so much weight, that it had taken toll on his body, leaving a sharper, unhealthy edge to his features.

He was still and motionless, accompanied by air untouchable vulnerability about him, yet it was as if he wasn't really there.

Ryoma, since the news of the death, had been in a state resembling a static shock, as if his mind were trapped in the memories of the past and refused to leave because he was unready to accept the painful truth. He felt as if he was drifting, not here yet not quite there.

He hadn't even shed a tear, but he was already broken.

Everyone watched him with wary, cautious eyes – as if Ryoma was a time bomb without a watch. His reaction didn't allow them the benefit of doubt and they had no idea of what Ryoma would do. The boy could be so radical and erratic at times that they were not sure what he was thinking.

But Ryoma was not really thinking. He was just _remembering._

Of Fuji, about Fuji, everything Fuji.

Fuji who was like the wind – fleeting and kind. He stormed uninvited, unexpected and then left Ryoma alone, in love, and ruined.

Like a jaded widow, even though he was the most wretched and devastated, Ryoma held his front strong and some people thought he was just trying to be the pillar he had always been before. But some people were wrong.

Ryoma was already _delusional._

When he returned to the apartment, he thought he saw Fuji sprawled on the living room, with his picture books and photos spread across the space. Soft brown hair would flutter as the breeze whistled through the balcony and Ryoma would watch with disbelieving eyes that it was all _his_ to own.

He thought he saw Fuji pacing in the kitchen, knowing that his hands could only born what his boyfriend said would endanger the humanity and their existence, but still did it anyway just to annoy Ryoma. Which sometimes he did without a piece of decency on his person but that damnable apron.

He thought he saw Fuji on the bed, casually reading through a book with his glasses perched on his nose, waiting for Ryoma to join him before he dropped whatever he was holding or doing and devote his flattering attention, his whole existence to Ryoma as if Fuji's world had suddenly narrowed to him and him alone. Fuji would stroke his hair languidly; he spilled harsh realities with even harsher love that contradicted the unbearable kindness of his hand, of lips making love to every inch of his skin, of blue eyes gazing down at him adoringly as if the world wasn't enough to worship the slight young man cradled in his arms before it grew darker with desires.

He saw Fuji everywhere, as if his boyfriend had burned every memory they made into his mind.

Ryoma remembered the lingering warmth on the sheets on the bed where Fuji would usually lay; spending sleepless night making love to him at ungodly hours, whispering sweet nothings until Ryoma blushed different shades of reds, or just stared at him while he slept just to be the first that Ryoma would see when woke, or how he'd indulgently let Ryoma rested on the crook of his body, spoiling him in a gentle warmth that he so craved. Now, it was cold and almost too cruel – Ryoma would often, in his sleep and his wake, reached to caress the empty space beside him and felt himself shattered all over again when he was met with nothing and heartbreak as he desperately for that familiar weight he had grown to have return.

_I love you. I love you. I love you so much._

"_Is it wrong? Is it so wrong to love you so much?"_

Fuji had left a message on his phone. Another one of his stupid, embarrassing messages. Ryoma would sigh in exasperation and mortification every time he received it but he'd keep it anyway and replayed it adoringly over and over again before Fuji came home and he'd knock Fuji down and kiss him senseless before proceeding to undress him or he'd smack him over the head for being and idiot and then kiss and undress him just the same anyway.

"_It is…"_

Because at the end, Fuji would always say the same thing, in that adoring, unavailingly kind voice that made Ryoma wanted to cry every time he heard it.

… _I love you so much, you know that?_

In their relationship where Ryoma was someone who didn't like to talk and Fuji was someone who loved to talk about nothing, words were like diamonds. Expensive and useless. But then, Fuji always felt this constant need to assure Ryoma that he really did love him. Ryoma always told Fuji that he didn't have to say it and just prove it. Fuji insisted on giving both. He said sometimes effort just wasn't enough. Love confessions were like an art of making love in its own rights. It was like the spice of their relationship; the metaphorical wasabi to their sushi, as Fuji would often joke.

Ryoma never understood it, but while he was incapable of expressing himself like Fuji did, he always did feel this spark of near orgasmic pleasure every time he heard it and wondered if that what Fuji meant.

"_It is… but who cares anymore?"_

_Nobody. Nobody, it's just us here after all._

Ryoma instinctively reached out his right hand to his left, covering the silvery band circling the ring finger of his left hand – the ring finger that knew their every whispered secret when they laid together in bed, speaking nonsense like the stupidly and madly in love couple they were, the ring that knew their every promises, every fights, every shared kisses, every passionate love making.

It was the ring that Fuji slipped him over two years ago despite his protests.

"_Ne, when we get married…"_

Fuji knew that they would never really marry – the world wouldn't accept it, not with Ryoma's standing in the society. But he always did like to pretend that they would. He'd talk and played that they were engaged, looking like an overgrown child as he did, and Ryoma humoured him and played along. Because he loved Fuji too much.

"_Loving someone like I love you, so much… just so much I'm about to go crazy thinking about it… never again will I love like this."_

Then, they were about to close the lid and the subdued Ryoma suddenly looked up – a subtle movement, but conspicuous – and suddenly, as if slapped, his eyes widened and every single emotion rushed into his usually inexpressive eyes and flooded his weary face; shock, denial, the pain and the consuming grief, lost, love. _Especially love._ And heartbreak. His body trembled and suddenly, everything around him gridded and sharpened to crystal-clear, though surreal reality.

His mind had become a vast, empty space and everything that was still suddenly moved too fast, everything was suddenly too much, and he _broke._ One moment, he was almost lifeless, the next, everything – sanity included – crumbled with alarming speed. It shattered the almost heartless façade he had maintained since Fuji's death announcement outside the operation theatre.

_Shusuke._ His mind whispered, louder and louder as that name – precious, beloved – echoed in his mind like a man possessed. _Shusuke. Shusuke. Shusuke._

Someone gasped. Who, he wasn't sure, but he immediately knew why.

Tear, that he hadn't allowed himself for years, that he shouldn't have been capable of, escaped him unknowingly.

"_What should I do? What should I do? I'm so happy, I'm scared…"_

_It wasn't supposed to be like this._ Ryoma always thought that someone like his lover, cunning and shrewd, would survive almost everything with his elusive, nearly unreasonable will and was supposed to live long, healthy, and mischievous to ripe old ages. He said he would. With Ryoma. He promised that Ryoma would never live a life nor the after without him, because Fuji refused to live a second longer than necessary without Ryoma. His boyfriend often joked about his own death. He'd rather face his death than Ryoma's and he'd die as Echizen Ryoma's lover.

Now, fleeting smiles were discarded and he grieved for a love. Fuji's wish had been granted and Ryoma was the one to pay the price.

… _I love you so much, you know that?_

Fuji always was a demanding, persuasive, self-centred bastard. Ryoma both loved and hated him for it.

But he went too far.

"Echizen?"

Ryoma couldn't register the weight of Oishi's hand on his shoulder, the worry finding their damnable way to the faces of familiar people.

He realized that he should say something, like he was alright and they didn't have to worry. He couldn't lie like that, as if Fuji didn't matter.

He was gone. Gone. Gone.

_Gone._

Right. Fuji was not here anymore. Everything else, he couldn't care less.

He'd no longer feel Fuji's hard, passionate desire and his heat moving in and out of him with such worship and fervour that Ryoma felt like he had died and went to a place better than heaven, he'd never again hear Fuji calling his name in such an adoring tone, in such wanton abandon.

The messages. His confessions.

… _I love you so much, you know that?_

_Just how many times does he intend to break me to pieces?_

Their little, continuous game of play engagement and the silly, meaningless sweet-talk between their desperate, violent love-making, their surprisingly chaste, careless kisses shared in between their burning red, jealous passion.

They were, had been so helplessly, recklessly in love that people around them looked them with pitying, sympathetic, sometimes sickened look on their faces. But their love knew no shame or bible preach, just the ecstasy-high, the other's all-too-consuming kiss, and their frantic, brutal love.

It was so, so _cruel._ The way summer reminded him of Fuji's playfulness that lit up even his worst day like a firework display, the stormy nights that reminded him of the angry, feverous make-up sex that followed their senseless fights. Cold winters reminded him the anxious minutes he spent waiting for Fuji to come home, unwilling as he was to admit how lonely he had been that he wanted Fuji to hurry home.

The winking of camera was nostalgic, reminding him of secretive smiles and mischievous blue. Large, warm hands covering his smaller, colder ones. Quiet, rainy nights recalled when they walked hand-in-hand, without an umbrella and as people stared at them as if they were out of their minds, they ignored the world and exchanged pointless stories, laughed, and stole kisses when they thought no one was looking.

Echizen Ryoma had lost his pillar.

Because some fucking kids who couldn't handle their liquor and pretended they could by crashing Fuji's car.

Fuji was not coming back to him, because he was _dead._ He'd never return, no matter how long Ryoma waited, no matter how he pleaded and begged, how he bled his heart and cried his eyes out.

Fuji was dead.

And Ryoma saw black. As a vindictive, metaphorical fist clenched around his heart, Ryoma felt his chest constricted painfully and his vision blurred. He heard a distant chorus of familiar, panicked voices calling his name over and over again.

But he didn't hear that one voice. He'd never again.

Blessed darkness took mercy and over his consciousness and he knew no more but the wonderful, blissful dreams where Fuji was alive and laughing and loving him. Fuji would look at him with those blue, blue, loving eyes and he would say, in that voice that made Ryoma weak all over:

… _I love you so much, you know that?_

**End Note :** So what do you think of the new version? Personally, I think this is even more tear-jerking than the first version. I think I cried somewhere in the middle thinking that I'm doing this to one of my favourite pairing… ah, and there's some changes I've made. Hope you like it. Please review if you do.


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